Talia looked across the tarmac. A dark green Cadillac Brougham stood opposite, a portly, white-haired man beside it. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
The steward laughed. ‘Oh, no, miss, that’s not Mr Miller.’ He took her arm and turned her towards the opposite side of the tarmac. Talia had a quick glimpse of a sleek black Maserati, a car that looked more like a predator than a vehicle, and the man lounging against it, his arms crossed at his chest. ‘That’s Mr Miller, ma’am. Haven’t you ever met?’
The air seemed to rush from Talia’s lungs. No, she thought, no, it couldn’t be…
‘Miss Roberts? Are you all right?’
Talia nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said finally, in a voice unrecognisable as her own, ‘we’ve met.’
And, of course, they had.
Despite the elegant navy pin-striped suit, despite the shockingly expensive sports car, she’d recognised Logan Miller the second she saw him. His mouth curved upward as he uncoiled his lean body and began walking slowly towards her.
Logan Miller and the California drifter who had kissed her in the redwood grove were the same person.
TALIA’S mind raced in circles, each tighter than the last, as she tried to make sense out of what was happening. Finally there was no choice but to face grim reality.
What was happening was obviously impossible, but it was happening none the less. The man she’d treated with such cold indifference, who’d retaliated by taking her in his arms and kissing her, was also the man who held her future in his hands.
She felt as trapped as she had on her first day at college when she’d stood alone in the hall of her dormitory building, watching as girls dressed in trendy jeans and knit tops exchanged excited talk of European travel. Talia had spent the summer at home, in Schenectady, New York; she had been decked out in a dress Grams had made for this occasion, and suddenly she’d understood just what people meant when they talked about being as out of place as a fish out of water.
Would she ever fit in here? More importantly, would she be able to hold her own in this bright assemblage? She had a trembling suspicion that the answer was ‘no’.
‘I want to come home, Grams,’ she’d whispered into the telephone that evening. ‘Please. I don’t belong here.’
Her grandmother hadn’t even hesitated. ‘Nonsense,’ she’d said briskly. ‘Only cowards run away. Besides, you wouldn’t be there if you didn’t belong.’
The homely advice had got her through the first terrifying days. Eventually, she’d settled in happily. Grams had been right, as always. She’d belonged at Cornell; clothes and money hadn’t mattered, ability and hard work had.
‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t run?’ Grams had said on the day of her graduation.
She hadn’t thought about the fright of those early days in years. Now, watching Logan Miller walk slowly towards her, smiling the way a panther might smile as it stalked its prey, the memory—and her grandmother’s counsel—came rushing back. Her spine stiffened. She wasn’t about to run now, either. And she did belong here; John Diamond had sent her to conduct business.
The euphoria lasted less than a moment. This was different. She wasn’t a coward, no. But she wasn’t a fool, either—she knew when she’d been set up. Logan Miller had known who she was—she winced, remembering how curtly she’d told him her name, how she’d ignored his outstretched hand.
‘Until we meet again,’ he’d said, but there was no way she could have known what he’d really meant, that he’d planned to lead her here like a lamb to the slaughter.
The proposed contract with Diamond Food Services was a lie. She had no doubt that his company was setting up an executive dining-room, but Logan Miller would probably just as soon sign a contract with the devil as with her. She was here for one reason only, and that was so that he could bring her to her knees. The only question left was how he planned to do it.
‘Miss Roberts.’ Miller’s voice gave nothing away. Talia thought it must be the way he sounded whenever he dealt with subordinates. He was every inch the cool executive, so secure in his power that he could afford to sound gracious. ‘How kind of you to come to LA on such short notice.’
Her head rose slowly. The expression on his face made a lie of the calmness with which he’d spoken. His mouth was a grim slash above the cleft in his chin; his eyes were flat, narrowed against the setting sun. He was watching her with a kind of polite curiosity, waiting for her to respond. A cold knot formed in her breast. Did he think she was going to make a courteous little speech, thanking him for having invited her to her own execution? Or was he waiting for her to grovel for mercy and plead for forgiveness?
She was the one who was owed an apology, not he. Logan Miller had known she’d had no idea who he was. He could have cleared up her misconception any time, had he wanted. Instead, he’d let her make a fool of herself while he’d goaded her with little tortures, first kissing her as if he had the right to take anything he wanted, and now this bit of subterfuge, bringing her all this distance just to make her eat humble pie.
Talia squared her shoulders. She might have to eat humble pie, but she didn’t have to pretend to like it. Go to hell, Logan Miller, she thought, and she looked straight into his eyes. ‘Good evening, Mr Miller.’
She was pleased with the sound of her voice. It was calm, unhurried, as if she were seated in her office and dealing with a client. There was no way for him to know that her legs felt as if they were going to buckle any second.
A slow smile tilted the corners of his mouth. ‘I take it you had a pleasant flight.’
She nodded. ‘It was fine.’
‘Good. I told Julio to be sure and make you comfortable.’
‘He did.’
Miller held his hand out to her. ‘May I help you down the steps, Miss Roberts?’
Oh, how civilised he was. Well, she could play the game as well as he—at least she could try. She shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I can manage.’
His eyes darkened, and she knew that he was remembering the other time he’d offered her his hand and how she’d turned it down then, as well. She came down the steps, head held high, and paused when she reached the bottom. Logan Miller was standing so close to her that she could see a muscle move in his jaw.
‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you, Miss Roberts.’ His smile thinned. ‘But then, I seem to recall telling you that we’d meet again.’
‘Did you?’ She smiled politely. ‘I don’t recollect.’
She fell back as he took a quick step towards her. ‘Don’t push your luck, Talia.’ His voice was soft. ‘Unless you’d like me to refresh your memory.’
So much for civility, she thought, while her heart knocked against her ribs. So that was the game, was it? She was the puppet, Logan Miller the puppet master. He’d pull the strings and she’d dance.
